Reset
by AllHeroesWearHats
Summary: As an 89 year old man, Francis is happy to watch the rest of his days slip by, but the arrival of an aggravating, English nurse and lifelong nightmares that may be more real than he thought, places him headfirst into an international scandal. A small, dirty briefcase is about to threaten everything he knew to be true, as a lie. FrUk, with other nations mentioned nearer the end.


Reset

_There's a man who speaks to him with a deep voice, though the words are lost to him. He holds something in his hands, a shape of colour but it's too dark to make anything out. Then there's tension, palpable and thick in the air, which covers the setting like a heavy blanket. He answers the man and the tension grows._

_There's a glint._

_Then a bang._

_Everything fades to black and he wakes up screaming._

* * *

Francis frowns in discomfort at the light hitting the outside of his eyelids. He was dozing contently, but now that he was awake he noticed the discomfort and shifts restlessly under the blankets in an attempt to ease away the ache in his back. The mattress isn't as soft as it looks and his bones aren't as protected as they once were in his youth; now that the previously hard and smooth muscle has given way to ghastly see through parchment covering twigs disguised as bones. It feels like he's lying on a very unforgiving slab of stone. Being not as strong as he was, an occasional turn is all his can manage without his arms giving out and that isn't enough to ease the pain away. Damn them to hell, he'd rather break his arms than suffer from bed sores

He teases open his eyes and squints at the brightness in the room. He can't see much in great clarity anymore, really. He can see the room he's in; see that it's white and rather barely decorated, save for the knick knacks scattered about and dotting the cabinets, he can see the light filtering in through the window at the opposite end of the room. He knows exactly where it is, even laying down, because it's that damn window which let the sun in as light filters through the permanently gappy curtains in the morning and wakes him far earlier than he needs to be woken. The orderlies won't move his bed around to a different part of the room; even though he's grumbled at them many times that he needs all the beauty sleep he can get. What he can see is slightly blurred and fuzzy, even with glasses, things familiar but distorted slightly at the edges, so even though he knows he can trust what he's seeing his eyes are depriving him from the detail that he remembers to be there. Some days are worse than others, and this is becoming more frequent. Sometimes the world sways when he moves his head, figures sloshing and swimming about like he's underwater and a film of milky white is creeping ever so gently around his peripheral vision. Not long now. The details are going to be forever lost to him.

Thankfully though, he can't see his wrinkles either.

Not that he can move himself over to look into the mirror anyway, which is propped on the chest of draws to his left, along with some books and some mementos from his old house that he clung on to a bit too forcefully. Why on earth did they put anything he holds dear to him over there when he's bed bound, do they expect him to up and go one day; that his desire for old photos, chocolates, flowers, and a damn mirror will make him mobile again? A part of him wonders if this was intentional, thing that are considered bad for him are kept out of harm's way, they would only remind him of a youth that has slipped by, time passing unnoticed yet leaving its mark on everything and wherever he looked. The door's on his left too; bed is in the middle, facing the stupid window, and a bedside table either side. There're flowers on the one to his right, probably a gift from a family member he's probably not all that close to as he can't quite remember receiving them from anyone. Everyone important to him is either too far away, just a little bit dead, or also trapped in a bed in a different part of the country.

Francis doesn't mind his situation much, he's lived a good, long life and he's satisfied with everything he's done in it. He's content to watch the last of his days slip away slowly; knowing that everyone he loves is safe and warm and cared for. What he hates though, and the only thing that gets him grumpy, is that fact that he can't move. One who used to be so agile and active previously understandably can't help but feel so trapped and unhappy with what's become of legs that could run and fingers that could paint. He unhappily notes, with some sort of morbid fascination, the ways in which his body seems to be shutting down at a visible pace. Arms are becoming stiffer, knees tighter, tongue heavier.

He also dislikes being dependant on others; for as long as Francis can remember he's always done things his own way when and how he wants, so having carers hoist him up, wash him and sometimes even feed him on bad days is more frustrating than he can express. His body may be going but his mind certainly isn't and nor are his memories of being who he was, whom he still feels, _knows_, himself to be. He isn't much fond of the notion of being treated like an old, doddery invalid.

He doesn't mind his carers though, some are a little short with him for being slow at certain things when they must _know_ that it's not his fault and it's those whom he doesn't get on with. Most, however, crack jokes with him, sing songs with him, read to him, and generally allow him to act like the adult he knows himself to be. The ones he gets along with the most, happily or coincidentally for him, are women or men who are quite young, with vigour and haleness expressed through cheery grins and chirped conversations and who allow him to tease them and put up with his off-hand flirty comments about their wonderfully pert _derrières_. Well, most of them.

The other residents aren't that bad. This is a care home, not a hospice; this isn't a place to die, but a place to await what's coming. There're four buildings, each holding a variety of patients in different stages and patients are moved about depending on their level of care. Francis still has his mind, he can still walk and talk well and therefore he's here as a 'just in case'. He can feel his body getting slower, though his mind stays sharp, actions becoming harder to force his body to do and he knows that he's better off here. He has chosen to come here because he knows it's his time, he wasn't forced and thinks that that is the most important thing. If he is to lose his free thinking will, then let the huge decision of being here be something he chose to do, one last sacrifice he chose to make.

His toe itches and he wishes to the God almighty that he had the ability to lean down and scratch it without breaking something. But he doesn't, so instead he starts humming to distract himself a little. He may be losing his eyes but his ears are still as sharp as ever.

The next thing he realises is that the door is opening and one of his carers whom he most definitely does _not _get along with comes striding in.

'Good morning, Francis, how are you feeling.' Arthur does not ask this; rather he throws the question at Francis as he comes past to open the terrible floral curtains covering the window, without waiting for an answer. Francis has heard that Arthur is actually extremely nice and considerate to all of the other residents, knocking before entering and everything, but he's yet to see even a shred of proof of this when it comes to his behaviour towards him.

'Terrible, seeing as it is you who are ungraciously invading my room this early in the morning.' Is what he wants to say, but recently he has been finding it harder to take the long, deep breaths necessary for such a long and quick fire sentence, so instead, he settles for the far more manageable; 'Terrible, now that you're here.' Alas, not the venom he wants to show, but it does its job as Arthur spins round, thick eyebrows pulled into an ugly scowl.

'Well, I see someone is feeling happy today.' Arthur's French is littered with glass cut English vowels replacing the formally lovely, soft French ones and it grates upon Francis' ears to hear such abuse of the language he loves so much. It's far too early for his day to be marred with this _heathen_.

'I would be happier if you would speak French without your crass tones slathered all about your words.' He forces out slowly, a deep breath and a slight pause halfway through. He shifts a little upwards in an attempt to see and breathe better. Arthur noticed quickly and made his way over to press the remote on the side of Francis' bed, raising the back slowly so that Francis can sit up. 'Would you prefer I speak English?' He offers in his native language with a smirk that grew at Francis' glare. Francis loathed anything English, though he didn't really have a reason as to why. One of his favourite pastimes of yesteryears was to answer in rapid fire, perfect French, spoken quicker than he ever would normally, to any English speaker whom dared stop and ask him for help in Paris. He loved the satisfied feeling of the growing frustration of the English speakers, revelled in the knowledge that in a foreign land they were trapped in the confines their one mother tongue shackled them with. It irked him most now that he was on the receiving end; Arthur could speak both languages fluently and would often subject him to the vulgarity of English either by insulting Francis or to answer his often far too probing questions he didn't really wish to answer in the said tongue..

'Must you be so vile?' Francis held his breath as Arthur's cool hands slid under his arms to gently hoist him into a more comfortable position.

'But of course.' Arthur answered silkily, thankfully back in French. 'Having someone who isn't constantly stoking your ego can be good for you.'

'Ah mon amour, just because you don't have anyone stoking yours, doesn't mean you should deflate an old man's.'

Arthur gave a small laugh. 'Admitted you're old, finally?'

Francis gave a perfect Parisian shrug. 'I think hitting 89 does give me reason to entertain the notion of no longer being young.'

Arthur made a non-committal sound but didn't offer a response, choosing instead to check his clipboard he'd previously discarded on Francis' dresser top when he went to open the curtains. 'Did you sleep well?'

'As well as can be.'

'Not much then?'

'Not really.' Francis watched as Arthur made a little note on his paper. Arthur was one carer Francis made no point in give out white lies to, there was no unpleasant truth buttering when it came to him. Although Arthur wasn't someone Francis would go out of his way to talk to, Arthur was one of the only ones whom answered him with as much bite as Francis himself gave with his words. One of the only ones, aside from the other residents, who didn't molly coddle him like a child and he appreciated it.

'I'll ask Julia if it's worth trying you with some sleeping pills, a different type though; this is becoming more and more common lately.'

Francis gave a scoff and remarked drily, 'You think I haven't noticed?' Ignoring Arthur's exasperated sigh through his nose, Francis sat up a bit higher and stretched his arms in front of him. Breathing was a lot easier now that his own weight wasn't squashing the air from his lungs. 'When are you actually going to do your job and get me up and ready for breakfast; I'm hungry.'

* * *

The nursing home was located in the province of Aunis on the West of France, in the town of Fouras. It was near the coast and not too far from farms and stretches of light green fields on the other side, with plenty of fresh air and quiet. It was sparsely decorated inside; light crème walls and pale blue carpets, a dusting of paintings scattered about the walls with the odd ornament dotted about here and there on small corner tables. Medical equipment was stored in specially adapted rooms; though whether this was to conceal them from visitors or to shield the patients was debatable.

It was quite open plan, large archways instead of spindly doors and open common areas rather than twisty narrow corridors. All buildings and rooms were on just a ground floor with a flat, large parcel of land serving as the grounds next to a small suburban neighbourhood. This allowed the residents, who could, to wander about the grounds and even outside the estate for day trips with family or by themselves if they wished to and were deemed medically capable. Residents that couldn't walk as well but wanted to were often taken out for walks with a career. There were often trips planned too, like outings to the countryside for a picnic, or to the seaside, or sometimes even just out for a drive about the streets. The aim was to not allow residents to become disconnected from the world, to do as much as they could whilst they were still able to. There was a schedule for dinners, washing, medicine, and sleeping, but for the most part the people who lived there were allowed to spend their time pretty much how they wanted.

Francis was one of the residents whom still had quite a bit of freedom left. Although he couldn't get up on his own, (or get down again well, for that matter) and was a lot slower than he used to be, once he was up he was extremely mobile and was beginning to create a name for himself in the art of running off. Resenting the rule of having to always have someone know where he was, he was prone to just wandering off to go on a walk to visit a friend in another room which caused frantic staff to dash about desperately looking for him once they'd realised he'd yet again slipped away from one of them.

This particular morning, Francis had taken it upon himself to walk down to visit a bench in one of his favourite spots on the outer reaches of the grounds, down a small public footpath and sheltered by a small glade of wood that opened into a forest. It was a bright and sunny day, the kind of weather that makes you want to sit about and laze in the sun, so he had hoped that he wouldn't be missed for a while.

'You absolute arse!'

Ah, never mind. 'Salut Arthur, what brings you this way?'

Arthur said some things under his breath, which were probably not very nice and directed towards him, in English. 'What on earth are you doing out here?' He'd stomped to stand in front of Francis now and was panting lightly, a sign that he'd jogged the last few feet after spotting him.

Francis looked up to meet his eyes, squinting against the sun. 'A mere walk, mon cher, am I not even allowed that now?' He offered towards the angry, Arthur shaped silhouette. Arthur looked like he was swallowing back some choice words, judging by the pinched, hard line his lips were forced into before speaking again.

'You are _allowed, _Francis, but you know you _have _to let someone know where you're going. If something happened to you there's no way we'd know to help you, especially this far out.'

'You, of all people, unfortunately found me.'

'Francis, you kno-'

'Yes, yes.' Francis waved away Arthur's lecture with one hand and patted the seat beside him with the other. 'Come, sit down a bit. You're here, you've found me, and I'm safe, so now you may as well sit down before you give yourself heart palpitations.'

Arthur gave him a hard stare, as if judging whether it was worth continuing scolding someone who obviously wasn't going to pay any heed to his or anyone else's advice on the matter. After a few seconds he conceded and flopped down next to the older man, leaning heavily against the bench and allowing Francis to see him better. He had his eyes shut and looked flushed, though from the heat or the run in the heat Francis couldn't be sure, but at least he didn't look as if he was going to start telling him off anytime soon.

'I'm not stupid rosbif, I never leave the grounds and I never go anywhere unless I am sure I am up for it. I am not unaware of the dangers and nor have I lost all shreds of my common sense.' He spoke in a flat, almost despondent voice, like he'd given this explanation for his actions many a time before to many a different carer.

Arthur pitied all of them. He'd not even worked here for that long and he was coming close to the end of his tether half the time. He gave a small sigh but then quickly snapped open his eyes, though didn't look at Francis. He gave an intense look into a bush off to the left of where they sat as though he'd heard something and stared for a while before sliding his eyes ahead. 'That's fine, but for our own piece of mind, just please let us know something. At the very least, the direction you're going in and how long you're expecting to be. That's a fair compromise, isn't it?' Arthur turned to look at him and fixed him with a tired gaze.

'I know you enjoy your independence,' he started delicately, 'but at this rate you're not going to be allowed out without someone firmly attached to your side and I know you'll consider that to be a lot worse.'

'I'm not yet used to all this.' Francis waved his hand absently in the direction of the home behind them. 'Three years, and I still miss being able to just go and do whatever whenever. You'd think by now-' He gave a hollow laugh. 'You don't understand how grating this is. To be watched and tracked all day every day; how _frustrating _it is. I hope you never do.'

He turned back to his companion and was slightly surprised; he looked as though he was smothering down an expression of some sort that Francis couldn't put a name to, his eyes seemed sad and the lips drawn together harshly, but whatever it was, was replaced by Arthur's usual apathetic, unruffled stare so quickly that Francis was sure he imagined that there was anything else ever there at all.

'Well, I dare say I've got a few years left. Come on, that's surely enough rough rambling to satisfy you for a while, we've got to head back for lunch.' He stood in one easy swift movement, noticing Francis' look of undisguised disgust at his ease and then helped Francis to his feet, allowing him get going and walk ahead of him slightly back up the path that would wind them on towards the home. He waited a bit to make sure that Francis was out of earshot and then stood still and gave one last quick look back behind them, listening for something carefully. After a moment's pause and seemingly deducing that there was nothing there, he quickly walked to catch up with his charge.

* * *

Dinner time was Francis' favourite time of the day, however less so for any staff member given responsibility for that day's meal. Residents of his building were encouraged to continue to cook lunches or small snacks for themselves with help during the day if they wanted something different from that which was offered, but dinners were all eaten as a single dish that the home shared to ease the trouble of making multiple different meals that suited the medical requirements of all. Francis wasn't too fond of not cooking or even helping, so liked to pop in and watch quietly.

Watching quietly often turned into 'helpfully assisting'.

'You need to turn them over now. That's it, see they're almost perfect! Now add the seasoning. No no, not that one; can't you see that now they're sticking to the pan?'

The person whom he was addressing was a portly, middle aged woman called Louisa with ruddy cheeks caused by a short temper and wispy brown hair bundled up into a hairnet. There were two head chefs employed at the care home and they shared the responsibly of meal planning and cooking throughout the week so as to add variety and to share the burden of planning medical needs ,as well as taste. Louisa was not someone Francis got along with very well.

'Mr Bonnefoy.' She responded curtly, spinning around face him and pointed a spatula threateningly at his face. 'If you do not leave this area _immediately _I will be forced to call the head nurse and have you forevermore banned from this kitchen.'

Francis tired to interrupt but she cut him off. 'No excuses! I don't care what you do when Belle is here and I don't care if she allows this nonsense but I will not. I can cook, I am aware of how to cook well, and I do _not _need you poking your nose in and telling me how to do my job.'

'Now,' she put down the spatula and took the meat off the heat. 'This is not a five star restaurant and you are no longer the head chef of one. If the food is not done to your exact standards then please by all means complain as I will happily not be listening.' She waved one of the assistant cooks over who was chatting to a nurse in the corridor. 'Please get Amélie to take Mr Bonnefoy to the living room, I've got a meal to attempt to cook and it'll go a lot better without any interference.' With one last shrewd look she shooed him away from the countertop and towards the door.

The nurse in question was a rather timid looking girl he hadn't seen before, who approached his side and took his arm, patting it in a way he assumed she meant to be a friendly manner. 'Come on Mr Bonnefoy, let's get you to the living room, yes? I'm sure you'd much rather enjoy yourself in there where you can watch television or talk with the others.'

Although annoyed by the way the lady was talking to him, as if he had the brains of a small, stupid child, Francis nevertheless hooked her arm in his and lead her towards the door. 'I'd much rather get to know you, ma cherie. After all, we've not had any new staff in a while and I'm sure I would have noticed someone as beautiful as you breezing through these halls if you'd worked here for long.'

She allowed a small smile and a quiet giggle. 'I've been warned about you, sir.'

'Francis, please.' He offered, leading her now out of the kitchen area, past other residents lumbering along in their own pace to gather and watch T.V before eating. 'When did you start?'

'Oh, not too long ago. This is my first full day though I've been doing odd shifts here and there to get used to things. I'm Amélie; it's lovely to meet you.'

Francis grinned at her easily. 'Likewise. Now, where do you come from? Tell me about yourself.'

* * *

'Right, first we have to get him changed, so you'll need to get his nightclothes out of a bed for him.'

Arthur was putting Francis to bed tonight, and it seemed poor Amélie was being subjected to his _gentle _tutorage.

'Er- w- where are they?'

'Open the wardrobe, normally all of the residents' are kept on the second drawer down on the right hand side.'

With a quick nod she scurried across the room, leaving her corner to retrieve the clothes where it looked like she'd tried to take refuge from the blunt instructions Arthur was giving as he prepared Francis' bed.

'All carers have two key residents and another two whom they share with another carer, so there's a ratio of 2 carers to four patients. You'll be the first point of call for your two key patients should you be needed and second for the other two; you will compare notes and concerns with your partner carer about all patients in your care and it's your job to make sure all four residents between you are happy.'

'I'm not happy.' Francis offered helpfully from his spot on the chair.

'Shut up.' Amélie looked shocked but Arthur continued as if there wasn't an interruption. 'Now, obviously you don't stay with these residents all day and you're expected to interact and talk to all residents in your building, but it's your two residents you manage medicine for alone, help into and out of bed, help them wash if it's needed, make sure they eat, and generally help them with whatever they need.' Arthur finished and stood with his arms crossed.

'Any patient that needs lifting or medical injections requires the presence of your partner carer, so you'll have to work out a rota between you both as to when you're both available to help patients that need more care together. Please don't attempt anything you're unsure of on your own. Any problems and you talk to the head carer, Julie. Do you understand everything?'

Amélie clutched the bedclothes with something which looked akin to fear on her face, eyes wide and unsureness rolling off her in waves. 'Yes, I think so.'

Arthur gave a sharp nod and moved towards Francis. 'Okay then, would you like to get Francis ready? He's quite easy as he doesn't need lifting but I'll be here if you need anything.'

'Are you finished talking to me as though I'm not in the room?'

Arthur hmm'd and had the gall to appear to consider it. 'Probably for now, but you never know.'

Amélie made her way over and started to undress him. Francis opened his mouth but Arthur, the demon, coughed. 'Don't even think about making any sort of comment, you, I know that face.'

Francis sneered at him. 'You're just jealous that I don't treat you kindly anymore.'

Arthur laughed. 'You wish, frog.'

'You know, you're insulting an entire building by saying that, do you forget which country you're in, rosbif?'

Arthur sniffed. 'Hardly, god damn awful food plus there's you here as well. I can't be anywhere else can I?'

'You could always piss off and scurry back to your shitty island, you know.'

Arthur looked shocked, and belatedly Francis realised that was far too harsh and personal. The impending awkward silence was broken swiftly by Amélie, who straightened up and clapped her hands. 'All finished. Now Francis, let's get you into bed.'

As Amélie guided and settled him down, Arthur walked across to the sink on the left hand side of the room, near the wardrobe, and filled up a glass of cold water. Walking back again, he set it down on a bedside table and reached inside his pocket on his pale blue, uniform shirt and pulled out a packet of pills. 'I told Julia what you mentioned this morning about sleeping and she thought we could try you out on these ones for a spell. If they work and you get a better night's rest without any...problems, we'll start reducing them and hopefully sort out the issue. You may not be sleeping because it's become a pattern, so hopefully this'll break it.'

'And if it doesn't?'

Arthur popped a pill out and handed Francis it and the glass. 'Then we'll have to get a doctor in and see if there's anything non-medicinal that can be done first. We'll work on things from there.'

Francis took the pro-offered pill and stared at it warily before swallowed it with the aid of the water. He shuddered, 'I swear they get larger the more infirm you get.'

Amélie patted his hand soothingly. 'It's perfectly normal to not like change Francis.'

Francis raised an eyebrow and shared a look with Arthur, who looked as though he also disapproved of this condescending behaviour. 'Yes, well. I've got my other resident to settle in and Mrs Dubois takes a little while longer.' He glanced over at Amélie who was still standing by the bedside and gave her a small smile. 'Well done at settling him in, is this your first nightshift as well?'

She nodded. 'Thank you for showing me the ropes.'

Arthur looked distinctly uncomfortable. 'Er, of course, no problem. It's just my job to. Luckily the patients in this building aren't a high risk so you won't need to check on them much, but a quick one is usually done at three am which you make a note of.' He gave her a warm smile and then looked down at Francis, face blank once more. 'I'll leave Amélie to lower you down when you're ready, Mr Bonnefoy; do you need anything else tonight?'

Startled by the formal address, Francis answered, 'Nothing at all, but may I talk to you alone for a bit?' He glanced over at Amélie, 'I'll only be a little while, and then you can finish up.' He winked at her when she nodded, causing her to giggle at him as she left the room.

'Is anything the matter?'

His eyes slid from the door to meet Arthur's green gaze. 'I just... wanted to apologise for what I said earlier. It was uncalled for.'

Whatever Arthur was expecting, it certainly wasn't that. 'What?' He looked terribly confused. 'No, I'm sorry Mr. Bonnefoy, I've been speaking to you far too informally; that's certainly not the way to treat a person I haven't known all that long, especially one in my care and I can promise that it won't happen again. I hadn't realised I'd let myself slip that much.'

'Please,' Francis looked at him deploringly, 'you're one of the only ones here who don't talk to me like I'm fast becoming a brain dead vegetable. I know I'm not all that quick and my beauty is not all that it was, but that's no reason to talk to me like a child.'

If Arthur had looked uncomfortable before, it was nothing to what he looked like now. He averted his eyes and coughed. 'If that's-' he was cut off by Francis chuckling. 'Wha- what now?'

'Do you know, I don't I've ever had the pleasure of meeting someone as socially awkward as yourself.'

Arthur turned red. 'You arse!' Poking him on the side of the head, he answered, 'I may be socially awkward, but at least I'm not going bald.'

This elicited a gasp of horror. 'How dare you! Of all the things to say to me! And I am not going bald you bushy browed swine! I'd like to see you even try to look this good at my age!'

Arthur just smirked at him and turned to the door. 'See you tomorrow, old man.'

He opened the door and Amélie looked in. 'You can come in now.' He said, though not unkindly. He was about to leave, but stopped suddenly and checked his clipboard frowning. 'Actually, if you don't mind I'll stay for a bit; probably wise to see if the new pills actually take effect like they should.'

She nodded and moved into the room. 'Sure.'

He inclined his head towards her. 'Do you mind just talking to him while you get him down; sleeping pills have never been his good point.'

Francis was starting to look a little wary at this point, but visibly brightened when she came closer. Picking up the remote, she lowered him gently downwards and helped him adjust. 'You have a lot of interesting knick-knacks here, Francis.'

He scoffed at her. 'Nothing much, I can assure you. You should have seen my old house; it was _teeming _with the most beautiful things, as well as my old paintings of course.'

'You used to paint? I thought you were a chef?'

Francis gave a soft smile. 'Ah, I was ma cherie. I painted in my spare time.' He paused for breath, feeling the effects of laying down settle on his lungs. 'My wife had a little art shop and I use to sell some things in there, but mostly it was just a hobby.'

'Your wife?' she started.

'She died 13 years ago.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry.'

'Please, don't be. Marie was a wonderful woman who died peacefully surrounded by family, we both could not ask for anything better.'

She gave him a sad smile and looked about the room. 'Is that what you used to keep your art supplies in then?' She looked over at a battered briefcase, sitting forlorn and hidden in the right hand corner, underneath the T.V and by the bookshelf. It was a silvery grey and must have been quiet clean once, but age had battered the light leather covering and had softened the edges. There were a few splodges on the outer casing and a grimy old lock gleamed from the top.

Arthur glanced up.

Francis gave her a cheeky grin. 'I'll tell you something, ma petite. I don't actually know what's in that case.'

'You don't?' She asked, confused.

'No, not at all.' He took a deep breath as he tried to fight off the drowsiness that he could feel start to creep up on him. 'I moved out of my parents' house when I was 23 and settled into a small place by the coast, in a small town near here.' Deep breath in. 'The house was quiet old but perfect. I met my wife and we had decided that she should move in with me so we could start up a life together.'

He was starting to blink more intensely now, fighting off the effects of the narcotic. 'I had to clean out a few things to make room, but wished to keep some so I went into the loft to store them. It was so cluttered that I ended up rearranging that about too.' The sentences were becoming very drawn out now, slow and heavy with sleep. 'I found it up there, tucked away under some boxes. It looked interesting so I tried to open it, of course, but couldn't. Firmly shut. Haven't been able to open it.'

He had finally closed his eyes and his breathing was starting to even out, but Amélie nudged him awake again. 'Why didn't you throw it away? Why keep it with you? What's so important about it?'

'Amélie...' Arthur spoke quietly from the side. 'Let him sleep...'

'Why?' She ignored him and questioned Francis again, more vehemently this time, trying in a manner which could be labelled as desperate in order to make him finish.

'I don't know.' Francis mumbled drowsily, eyes still shut. 'It had a pull on me; no matter... what I did I couldn't... throw...'

She made a move, as if to nudge him again but Arthur stepped forward and caught her hand in his own. 'What are you doing?' he whispered angrily in her ear. 'I said talk to him to keep him occupied, not interrogate the poor man!'

She stood, pulled her hand back, but wouldn't look at him. 'I was interested... it's not hurting anyone for him to answer and I was just curious.'

Her eyes darted back over to the case in the corner and she rapidly looked away again, looking conflicted. 'It's strange, don't you think? There must be something important to him in there.'

With that, she stalked out.

* * *

Francis didn't have very pleasant dreams that night.

He dreamt he was in a large room which was empty apart from him and one other person. The dream was darkened, but he knew there to be large, brilliant windows which lined the room and beautiful statues and old damask chairs beside windowsills, with painting in ornate gilded frames hung from the walls. In the dream it was dark, so oh so dark, and so very cold.

The person he was with spoke something, but the sounds were muted and didn't register. He responded in the same manner, laughing.

The man held out a thing he'd been carrying, but it blended in with the swirling colours of his suit and didn't register as anything recognisable. Just a lumpy shape. He passed it to Francis and he held its heavy weight carefully.

It had no texture, nor did he have any sensations of holding it.

There was another, slow this time, flurry of sound from the other man; the conversation tone had changed.

He responded in kind, but with a touch of confusion.

Anger, sudden thick, intense anger. That's all he could sense, that's all that mattered. Something had gone wrong, so very very wrong, and he tried to think quickly, tried to bring the conversation back to what it was like in the beginning but through the swirling of noise and colours Francis had no idea of what was going on, nor what he was supposed to do. A loud voice, a shiny thing, him throwing the lumpy thing away and then a sudden bang.

He awoke screaming, a pain like a fire burning in his chest and spreading rapidly across to the other side, smothering him in an inescapable pain. His lungs were constricting and he was finding it so hard to breathe, his shirt collar felt like it was choking him; it took everything he had to reach out and press the emergency button, blindly and widely groping about in the dark until his fingers hit the buzzer.

He didn't hear the door to his room bursting open, nor did he know how many people were in the room, but he could feel cool hands prying away the one hand he had clenched in his night shirt and then opening his top shirt buttons, as well as a calm voice talking to him, telling him to breathe deeply and just calm down, he was going to be fine.

The hand that was extracted from his chest waved widely for a bit and then gripped onto the nearest solid mass, which happened to be an arm, tightly whilst the other reached up towards his face. He registered that he was crying, tears were sliding unabated down his cheeks and settling in the hollows and ridges of his neck and clumsily tried to wipe them away.

After a few seconds the pain had receded slightly; he could hear better and became aware that what sounded like wheezy and drawn out sobs were actually coming from him. The rest of the room was silent, save from what he now realised was just his crying and the voice of Arthur talking to him.

'You're alright Francis, take a deep breath in and then out again. Come on.'

Francis tried to do as he was told but he ended up producing a deep but quick breath in and a choked sob out.

'That's it, well done. Try again. Can you open your eyes?'

He forced them open but shut them again quickly as the tears around his eyes made him blink rapidly. He felt a tissue being pressed into his hands and he gratefully wiped his face, breathing slowly evening out as each second passed and the burning pain in his chest dissipated. He finally opened his eyes fully, and saw Arthur, face as blank as usual, bent across the right side of his bed and leaning over him, right arm being clenched in Francis' own vice like grip and the left holding a box of tissues. He gently placed them down on Francis' leg and said, 'I'm going to check the pulse on your neck now, okay?'

Still unable to speak, he simply nodded in a single jerky movement and then flinched back slightly at the sensation of cool fingers on far too clammy skin. He absentmindedly wondered if having such cold hands all of the time was healthy. As Arthur was taking his pulse, Francis noticed other carers that were on the nightshift awkwardly crowded around the room and looking very unsure of themselves. Arthur looked over at one and gave her Francis' heart rate before looking back at him. 'I'm going to raise you up so that you can breathe better, alright? Squeeze harder on my arm if I'm going too fast.'

He pressed the button and the small churning noises of the electric mechanics underneath him gave Francis brief warning before he was raised slowly upwards so that now he was sitting at a gentle incline. He took at deep breath, easier now due to lack of constricting pressure and a loose collar and opened his eyes properly. Asides from Arthur and himself, there were four other carers in the room, including Amelie. All were standing about the bed and room but had formed a wide berth around Arthur.

'Are you feeling okay now?' Arthur drew his attention back again, and to the hand he still had clamped to Arthur's forearm which he promptly, upon realising what he was doing, released.

'Yes.' He was ashamed at the pitiful croak he produced.

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the room.

'We'll leave you alone for a bit with Arthur, okay Mr Bonnefoy? Come on everyone.' Another male carer, by the name of Jean, started to shepherd everyone else towards the door and before long the room was empty and peacefully quiet again, broken only by the occasional hiccoughing breath from Francis.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the footsteps of the other retreating down the corridor before Arthur broke it. 'Did your chest hurt again this time?'

Francis nodded but offered nothing else; the silence returned.

'It was clearer this time.'

Arthur started a bit; he was just starting to relax, but recovered face quickly. 'Oh?'

Francis nodded but wouldn't look at him. 'There was definitely another man with me, he passed me something but then he suddenly got angry at something I said, though I couldn't hear anything that was going on. Then he shot me.'

'He shot you? Are you sure?'

'I could see a flash of what must have been metal and then a bang. It also felt like I'd been shot.'

Arthur worried his lip. 'You can't know what being shot fee-'

'I know what it felt like!' Francis protested vehemently, 'I know...I've just always...' He broke off and clutched at his chest again looking pained. 'I can't explain it but I know what being shot feels like and I _know_ that's what happened. I want to say it's the same as other times, but like you helpfully pointed out, I've not been shot before.'

Arthur said nothing and continued observing him. Francis turned to look at him with scared eyes. 'Why do I always dream the same thing as soon as I take any form of narcotic? That's not _normal, _it's never been normal!'

'Calm down.' Arthur snapped, unnerved by the sudden out of character behaviour from his patient. 'Just calm down for a second, you're over thinking things.'

Francis shook his head despondently, silver hair falling loose from his hair band. 'Listen,' Arthur began, leaning forward again, 'when we're asleep, our brain sorts through what we've been through in dreams to help understand things, but it doesn't necessarily use memories to do this. Maybe when you take sleeping pills your brain just gets a bit more creative as it experiences a reaction to the drugs; maybe that's just the way your brain deals with chemicals in your body, I don't know. But don't work yourself into a panic for no reason.'

Francis sighed heavily. 'But why the same dream? Why is it getting clearer the older I get?'

Arthur leant back against his chair, crossing one leg over the other and he shrugged. 'Maybe the more you take them the more your brain reacts to them, or maybe your brain has associated drugs with that dream and the fear that goes with it, so it's created a pattern. It's okay to be scared of a dream, Francis, none of this is abnormal.'

Francis didn't answer so they settled back into the silence again. After a time, Arthur straightened his crumpled uniform shirt and got up to continue his shift. He left Francis, in accordance to his wishes, with his bed still at the slight incline to help him breathe and the lamp left on to bask the room in a dim orange glow, as well as the promise to return to check on him in a few hours.

Francis hated this; he'd had this problem since he was a young adult when he'd acquired the need for sleeping pills for the first time. The fear, the loud bag, and the large lumpy thing he received; they were all the same details. But the older he'd got, the more details he dreamt with, the more the fear grew as the more real the dream became. Recent times however, the dream were becoming very clear, and because he had been having the same one his whole lifetime it now felt more akin to a dream of a memory rather than a dream itself.

He shook himself and willed his body to relax and forced his muscles to stop tensing. Arthur was right, not that he'd ever tell him. He was over thinking this too much, the fear was _from _the dream, not _for _it. He'd experienced this before; he knew it would go away soon. Taking a deep breath in, he open his eyes to gaze around the room, lazily looking at everything cast in the warm, cosy light. Slowly, he slipped asleep again.

He came to at the sounds of a door clicking shut; probably Arthur, leaving again after his promised check up. The light in the room was now turned off, but the moonlight from the chink in the curtains allowed him to make sense of his surroundings in the dark. He shut his eyes and turned onto his right side to go back to sleep again when sudden icy cold panic rapidly pooled into his stomach and he snapped his eyes open again. The _briefcase; _he'd dreamt about the briefcase! The outline was the same, the faded colour was the same; his tired eyes and the lack of light made him see the damn thing nestled in the corner in a whole new, horribly familiar way. That wasn't made him panic though, what made him freeze in sheer terror, stiff under the covers was the fact that it had moved slightly forwards, now jutting out at an angle from the corner, and there were new scratches glinting back at him innocently from the faded lock. A gash in the material beside the mechanism told him that whatever it was, it was sharp and wielded with a lot of force.

Someone, most definitely from the home and whilst he lay sleeping, had tried to break into his stupid tatty briefcase.

Footsteps faded down the corridor outside and he started shaking.

* * *

**AN:**

**Hello! I hope this first chapter wasn't too boring; it's just there to really set the scene for everything to come. It's going to mainly focus on France and England, though a few other countries may pop up later on so don't worry about OCs, they're just there to help me tell the tale. :) I haven't written much properly for a while, so I hope that my style and characterisations are okay and not too OOC or bland and boring. I also hope that the plot makes sense and is interesting to read!**

**Please let me know what you thought of this, and please leave me any criticism you have about it as I really do want to improve and get back into the swing of writing again.**

**Hope to hear from you soon, please PM me or message me on my tumblr, fruk-yes. Tumblr. Com if you want to chat or know anything more.**

**Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed reading as much as I did writing! Until next time,**

**~AHWH~**


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